Down in Flames
by Bea Ryan
Summary: Bass and Jason talk about their hair, women, and music over beers. Seriously. (Friends ln Low Places Bromance story number 3.)


Jason plunked two mugs of beer on the table and hung his head.

Bass took a slug of his, leaned back in his seat and said, "I have always wondered how the hell your father scored a woman like your mother."

Jason rolled his eyes upward to look at Bass, waiting for the punchline.

"And seeing you crash and burn like that, I'm still wondering."

Jason sat up straighter and knocked his head against the high wooden back of the booth. It was embarrassing enough, flaming out with a barmaid working the weekday shift in a dive five miles from nowhere. Doing it in front of a witness who'd be able to heckle you about it later was salt in the wound.

"I used to have game," he said, taking a long swig of his beer.

"What happened to it?"

"I think Charlie ate it. She eats a lot for a little person."

Bass laughed, a rich sound from deep in his belly. "She looks like a bleached smurf next to you. Let's find you an Amazon. A warrior princess worthy of your stature."

Jason chuckled and said, "I do like a viking woman. Have you ever been to Minnesota?"

"No. Why?"

"My mom's from there. The place is covered in six foot blondes."

"Your dad tell you that?"

"Nah. My grandfather is just over the Wisconsin border. When we get up that way I cross the St. Croix River and see him. Drives my dad nuts."

"You're admitting to desertion?"

"Who you gonna tell? I hear the leader of that government hasn't been seen in what's left of the capital in a while." Silence dropped over them, dark and uncomfortable. Jason quickly broke it, "Anyway, I always came back."

Bass forced his face into a smile. "So the women are tall, blonde, and ugly is what you're saying?"

"Says the short, blond and ugly man."

"Is that a challenge, Junior?"

"I'd offer to be your wingman but since you look like a troll doll she might try jumping on my cockpit."

"If it smells like a pit she won't be staying long."

Jason laughed, admitting defeat in the battle of insults. He wasn't good at this, wasn't good at banter or friendship or relaxing, but he'd enjoyed his recent chances to try. Growing up, his mother had kept him close to her side until his father had pried them apart and drug him into the militia. Even when surrounded by soldiers, he couldn't relax. He was still the boss's son. Casual moments had been few and precious.

"Do you even know what a troll doll is?" Bass asked.

"Kind of. I heard Miles call you that."

Bass smiled, noticing again that his new drinking buddy was Miles Junior. He displayed more bravery than was safe and more bravado than was warranted. The kid wanted to do what was right. He wanted to serve truth, justice and all that superhero shit while impressing the girl. It felt familiar. It reminded him of life before the blackout.

"We had a band in high school," Bass said. "I tried to grow out my hair. It didn't go well."

Jason laughed. He knew what happened when you tried to grow out curls. His parents had never even let him try. "How long did you rock the 'fro?"

"It was a fro, but I don't think you could say I rocked it. I looked like Justin Guarini."

"Who's that?"

"No one you want to look like. Singer. He was famous for about a week. Bad hair. Bad, bad hair."

The giggles hit Jason then as he pictured President and General Sebastian Monroe's greatest political moments aided and abetted by a head full of curls. The yearly Blackout Day Memorial service would have been entirely different with a Rapunzel-like tangle blowing toward the crowd as the minister droned on and on. Even better was picturing him with his golden springs bouncing as he mounted the stage at school encouraging the kids to stay off drugs, out of each others pants and join the militia.

"It's not that funny," Bass said.

"It's pretty funny."

"You ever grow yours out?"

"You've met my parents. What do you think?"

"I think if your father couldn't find the scissors he'd shave you with a dull pocket knife."

"Did I tell you that story?"

"No, but like you said, I've met your parents. I'm guessing you've never been in a band either."

"No, but I can play the hell out of a piano," Jason said.

"Really?"

"When you and Miles resettled Philly that was one of my mom's requirements when she grabbed a house. It had to have a piano. Lucky me, I got to learn to play it. Mozart is my bitch."

Bass rested his arms on the table and dropped his head into them, hiding a smile. Miles had said something similar about Hendrix when he was 13 and learning to play the guitar. It had been a long way from true, but the girls they'd been trying to impress didn't know that.

"Do you know any songs with words?"

"You sing?" Jason asked.

"I do OK. Next Wednesday we'll go to New Austin. Maybe we can find a bar with a piano."

"Or at least friendlier women."


End file.
